Stability
by Vyctori
Summary: Raine had always thought of him as a stable fellow adult on their journey. Much changed since that time, and so one night after the events at Torent Forest, she muses upon what is different and what has stayed the same.


Stability  
_Vyctori_

A/N: Just a little thought that popped into mind. And if this seems like a diary entry, it's probably from an excess of RPing as Raine on Livejournal. Heh.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Tales of Symphonia_

**Warnings:** Het, spoilers.

O-O-O-O-O-O

I always used to look to him as an island of stability in the middle of what could almost be called a raging sea of immaturity. Earlier on, spending most of my time quelling Lloyd's impulsiveness and trying to educate Colette out of her amazing naïveté, as well as breaking up fights between Genis and Lloyd often left me feeling a lot older than my twenty-three years. Of course, the three of them are good friends to me, and though I'd never admit it aloud, I do love them, but. . . .

Well, I never really had much time to be young, which may be why I'm not as tolerant as most of the foolishness of youth. Mother abandoned Genis and me at the Otherworldly Gate when he was just a newborn. Being a young teenager wandering a brand-new world, keeping out of trouble, and looking after a demanding child . . . I had to grow up quickly or accept responsibility for the consequences.

Then again, most half-elves rarely have a chance to have a proper childhood. It's the way things are, and somehow, I doubt it will be changing any time soon.

Lloyd talked as though Colette's journey of regeneration was going to solve all the world's ills, just like that. Sometimes, his optimism makes me smile, but it's always a cynical smile—almost a jealous one. I never was an optimist. Only when I was too young to know what hatred meant was I ever that way.

It was . . . almost a relief, being able to share a tired glance with someone older and more mature. Someone who saw the world in its true form, who could take a hard look at all its injustices without turning away. I used to think it was because he was a mercenary and therefore had seen the worst that he was able to do that. Later, of course, I learned it wasn't that at all. What he would have seen as a mercenary wouldn't even have come close to comparing to what he saw in a lifespan that exceeds that of even the elves.

Some nights, we would stay up late together while Colette pretended to be sleeping to keep Lloyd and Genis from worrying. We never really said much. He would keep watch for enemies, and I would stay up with him until it was my turn. Instead of talking, we just sat together, thinking our own thoughts. Even for one so outwardly cold as him, it was a companionable silence.

I suppose I just slipped into the habit more and more as the first part of our journey in Sylvarant went on. I knew from the start what was going to happen to Colette at the end. Each day, seeing how excited Genis and Lloyd were to see Colette become an angel, and how Colette would just smile and smile, even though she knew she was going to die . . . it just made it harder for me to act like everything was fine and pretend that Colette becoming an angel didn't mean she was losing her life. Even when Colette could no longer speak, feel, eat, sleep, cry . . . Lloyd still didn't know until what could have been the end of her life.

Even now, I sometimes curse myself for being so naïve and not realising sooner that he knew far too much to be a simple mercenary. He knew about Summon Spirits, more history than most books, mana . . . the language of the angels. But the way he was so casual about it, and how he only ever gave small glimpses of his additional knowledge threw me off track. Maybe, I had told myself, it was the result of having travelled so far in search of work.

Part of me wonders if I simply didn't want to know. But after being told for years that Cruxis and angels were pure beings, servants of the great goddess Martel . . . it's hard to reject the foundation of your religion. Even if you start to wonder if it's all a lie.

Sitting awake here, months later, and watching him sleep—it's an unusual thing. Now that he's back with us for a time, I wonder if he remembers our evenings together. We can't stay up together any more; he's still too injured from his fight to do anything but rest, though he tries to pretend otherwise. And everything is different. Even though I know most of his actions were carried out because of his love for his son . . . it doesn't mean what he did was right.

I can't pretend he's an ordinary mercenary anymore.

There are so many questions I want to ask him, both as a scholar, and for my own sake. How did he and his companions discover the secret to becoming an angel? What was the Kharlan War really like? Did he witness the Balacruf Dynasty firsthand, and how exactly did it end?

When did innocent Mithos become cold, cruel Yggdrasill, and why did he change so drastically?

However, trying to get an answer out of him is nearly impossible. He will either answer the question with a question of his own, be noncommittal to the extreme, or change the subject so deftly, most people don't even realise he's done it. I almost admire him for it, because he is very, very good.

It's late. I should get some rest, since my turn for the watch is next, after Regal. I almost feel like Colette, and how she once was—I know I should sleep, but I feel as if I can't. I tell myself thinking of what's coming will do me no good; I can't affect events until they happen. Worrying will only make me less prepared to deal with what will come.

And so I retreat to my bedroll. I shut my eyes and command sleep to come. It is slow in arriving, but when it does, the last image I see is that of a calm island in the middle of rough seas. Then I slip into sleep.


End file.
